Losing Touch
by TheFallenArchangel
Summary: She is the untamable Bad Wolf, mourning the loss of the man she loved. He is The Master, full of anger and hate and pain, driven to madness by a never ending drumbeat. They should hate each other with every fiber in their being, but when she leaned in, a knife pressed to the base of his throat, the impossible happened. The drumbeat stopped. Master/Rose AU. Rating may change later.
1. Mortality

**A/N: Okay, I'm not even going to apologize for starting another story. It simply was driving me up the wall. Kinda weird, this pairing, considering I ship The Doctor and Rose like a madman (admittedly without a box), I thought Master/Rose could work. Shame they never got to meet. Anyway. Oh, this story takes place in a kind of AU in which The Stolen Earth and Journey's End happened before Utopia, The Sound of Drums, and The Last of the Time Lords.  
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**Disclaimer: I am a poor, poor Floridian who owns nothing. Sorry. All rights go to BBC**

**Warnings: Possible blood or violence in later chapters as well as language.**

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_One - Two - Three - Four_

_One - Two - Three - Four_

The merciless beating of the drums pound incessantly in the mind of The Master, driving him further into madness. He can feel his own blood on his skin as it spreads, and he can't help but think that he knew something like this would happen. He feels his les beginning to weaken beneath him, followed by the harsh collision of flesh against solid ground he collapses. It is then, as he lays on the floor that he realizes what he must do to obtain complete and total victory over The Doctor.

He feels the arms of his once friend wrap around his torso, feels him shake as he tells him that he'll be alright if he would just regenerate. He's dying, he can feel himself on the precipice between life and death. His hearts are weakening, and it's becoming more and more difficult to keep the impending regeneration at bay. He endures the pain simply because by persevering, he is hurting The Doctor already. By not regenerating, he will make The Doctor truly the last of the Time Lords. It is the final and most damning act he will ever accomplish. Though this desperate last act will surely result in the extinction of his entire race, he no longer cares. He knows now that he abandoned all hope for his species the second he ran, leaving Gallifrey to war, leaving it to burn.

He realizes now, as a quaky, shallow breath hisses between his teeth, that being shot with a human bullet isn't nearly as painful as he would expect it to be. His head cradled in the arms of the man he has tortured for a year now, he is dying. Sort of ironic really. The voice of The Doctor rings out above him, and though it should be close and clear to him, it sounds distant and warbled, as if the sound is coming from beyond glass, but he knows what The Doctor is saying. He's telling him, begging him really, to regenerate, to live. Why should he though, if it will only result in him being imprisoned for the rest of his existence? He thinks he might have said something to that effect, but he cannot be sure, the line between thought and reality have long since begun to blur.

It is seconds after this when he feels himself starting to slip, the waves of darkness reaching toward him, inviting him in to a place where all the pain will be no more. Despite the inviting current that he knows will bring him peace, The Master clings to life. He wants utter agony from The Doctor, wants him to have to see the death and destruction he leaves in his wake. The Doctor, the man who makes people better, brings more pain than he ever will life.

Now he balances on the edge, tiptoeing along the fine line between death and life, though life now has become the equivalent to imprisonment. Out of the two he would much prefer death. It is then that he feels it, a throbbing numbness followed immediately by an icy rush through his veins. Though he will not regenerate, he feels a deep feeling of disappointment. He had hoped the perhaps the drums that had plagues him childhood would cease in his final moments. It is obvious that he was wrong now. He looks up at The Doctor, his eyes probing, seeking honesty. It is then that he asks the most important question he can pull from within himself, although he needs the answer before he can willingly let go of life.

He wants to know if it will stop. He wants to know if in death he will finally find peace from the relentless drumbeat. It takes all the energy he can muster, and forces the question past his lips. As the last word of his question escapes, he feels his entire body tense, then feels it start to go limp. It is now that he falls into the darkness, into the welcoming embrace of death.

_One - Two - Three - Four_

_One - Two - Three - Four_

He dies in the arms of the now sobbing Doctor, laying in a puddle of his own blood, shot down by his human wife whom had stood so loyally by him for the past year. In his defeat she had killed him.

_One - Two - Three - Four_

He was dead. He had to be dead. Yet the drums continued.

_One - Two - Three - Four_

The drums continued.

They would never end. Ever.

_One_

_Two_

_Three_

_Four_

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The man once known on Earth as Harold Saxon is on a beach. Or at the very least he assumes that it is a beach, his eyes are closed, but the sound of crashing waves and screeching sea gulls tell him he's somewhere near the coast. He presses his eyes closed tighter as he tries to think, tries to remember. He remembers Lucy shooting him. He remembers dying. He remembers falling into the welcoming darkness. After that, he can remember nothing.

His hands, palms down on the ground beneath him, close slowly, and loose earth slips between his fingers as he digs them in. He is laying on his stomach, his body still clothed in the suit he died in, and the uncomfortable grit of sand presses against his right cheek. He takes quick stock of the state of his body, starting by wiggling his toes, then his ankles, then bending his knees. This process continues, finishing with him rolling on his side and running his front. It is what he discovers there that makes his eyes open in shock and stare at his chest.

The hole in his jacket from the bullet remains, as does a vast quantity of his own blood, there is no wound, no scar, nothing to indicate he was ever shot, let alone killed. There is also no pain as he presses his hands to the spot where he knows the bullet pierced his skin. This leaves him with only on explanation as to why he is still alive. He must have regenerated. It is the only explanation he can think of, but even that doesn't seem to make much since. He is not, as he had dreaded, imprisoned on the TARDIS, at least he doesn't think he is. The Doctor would not have let him free, certainly not after he threatened his _precious _Earth.

He rolls back onto his stomach, pressing his palms firmly against the sand as he moves to push himself upwards, onto his hands and knees. To his surprise, this small, inconsequential motion made the blackness creep upon his vision. He is somewhat alarmed to know that whilst he is fully awake and active mentally, his body seems to be in a state of utter exhaustion. It takes him an impossibly long expanse of time to go from his hands and knees to a hunched over kneel, and even longer to rise to his full height. He has no idea how long it's taken him to achieve the small feat of merely standing up, but his body throbs with the effort it has caused him. The drums beat louder in his head now, exaggerating the beginnings of a headache.

He has not regenerated, he realizes as he looks down upon his body. He feels the same as he did before, and there's really not as much confusion as there had been in his past regenerations. For this, he's grateful. He had become fond of his body, lean and slender, the body of a predator. Now that the only explanation that he had for why he isn't dead is obviously not the correct answer, The Master is back to square one. He decides to suspend confusion and wonderings, decides to figure out where he is, before figuring out _why _he is. He closes his eyes and presses both his forefingers and his middle fingers to his temple, rubbing in a circular pattern in hopes of quelling the oncoming headache before it can reach full intensity.

It is moments after this, that he opens his eyes and truly looks at and absorbs the place he is in, and as he does he is utterly bewildered as to how he noticed none of it before. His assumption that he was somewhere along the coastline was correct, and he observes the landscape with curiosity. The stretch of shoreline he stands on has a surreal feeling to it, the waves that crash against the shore a dark, almost black in color from silt. The sky itself is stained with inky patterns of grey, foretelling of future storms. The sand on which he now stands would probably be tan in proper lighting, but with only little sunshine making its way past the clouds, it looks to be pale silver. The entirety of it gives the feeling of being in a black and white photograph.

Now, as he reaches out with all other senses, he realizes there is so much more to this beach than he could have thought before. The very ground here tells of heartbreak and loss and misery. It tells of so many things lost and so few things gained. It tells of worlds and hearts both ripped apart and healed, and of choices made and promises broken. It's too much. He simply cannot take in all that this beach has to share. His eyes have once against slid closed as he drinks in all the agony and pain that this place exudes. He opens them again and glances around, looking for any indicator of where exactly he is. That's when he sees her.

In hindsight, he'll wonder how he could have possibly missed her, but for now he stares at her, unable to do anything else for the longest moment. She wades in the tide, not a hundred meters away, and though her jeans are rolled up to her shins, she walks about knee-deep in the water. Her body is lithe, and he can't help, not that he wants to mind you, the thoughts that spring to his head. As he watches somewhat long, golden locks rest upon narrow shoulders, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if she's trying to hold herself together by force. This makes him smile wider. All he can think is how amazing and simple it would be to twist his way into her head, how _easy _it would be to make her break, make her his. Nothing more than a possession. He is returning to himself, fueled only by lust and anger as his eyes dance over her. He wants to move forward, to grab her, to claim her as his in the most animalistic and brutish way possible. But he will not. He will restrain himself, because as she turns, angled just so he can see her profile, he knows who she is. And he knows where he is.

He reverts to memories of verbal assaults on The Doctor, delving through his memories and causing him as much emotional pain as he can. He remembers prying through his dreams whilst he slept, seeking new ways to increase his agony. He remembers the name that The Doctor called to mind whenever on the verge of breaking, the images and memories of adventures and losses. The image of a golden-haired girl with warm brown eyes. The feeling of a small hand intertwining with his, and a name that called resolve and strength to his spirit. And now The Master knows who this girl is, knows what her being here means, and knows where he is. She is Rose Tyler, precious former companion of The Doctor, lost to a parallel universe with a Human/Time Lord Metacrisis.

As his eyes refocus from his memories to the present, he sees her clearly now. She's walking toward him, foolish girl, ignorant child. She's like the lamb walking into the claws of the hungry lion without protest. He's a predator, and as she nears, his heartrate skyrockets in anticipation. It's when he realizes that he's walking too, that he notices his mistake. Perhaps in his daze he had forgotten the bout of weakness that controlled his body at this point and time. His legs had been ready to give out beneath him when all he was doing was standing. Now that he's walking, and now that he's realized he is walking, it is all he could do to not fall over, and even that doesn't last for long, as he staggers forward and plummets back to the ground, his hands thrown out to catch himself. As he hits the ground and his dignity is forcibly removed, stars dance before his vision. He feels a hand on his back, his side, and the voice of Rose Tyler asking him if he's okay. And despite his desire, his need, to break her, he can't. He can't even produce a coherent thought. And it is in the mindset of confusion and exhaustion that he allows himself to be taken into the darkness once more.

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**Well there ya go. I hope you enjoyed, reviews are always appreciated, and I'll hopefully see you next chapter. :D**


	2. Rose

**A/N: I want to give special thanks to Dragoneisha, as well as everyone else who commented on the first chapter. I felt all kinds of warm and fuzzy after reading your comments. I enjoyed writing this chapter, although I did struggle because I wanted to show Rose as different than she used to be, but not completely broken, because she's stronger than that. Also, each chapter will be more from either Rose or The Master's point of view, and it should be obvious in the first two or three sentences of each chapter who it's from.**

Disclaimer: While I think that I do a decent job writing about the characters, I do not own them. All rights go to BBC.

Warnings: Nothing drastic in this chapter, but in the next few there might be some cursing and violence. 

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Rose Tyler's dreams are full of fear and pain and hurt. When she wakes up, her skin is coated in a think layer of cold sweat, making the few strands of hair that stick out of her messy ponytail stick to her forehead. It is without care of dignity or appearance that she makes her way out of bed and stumbles toward the hall. Her legs don't feel like they'd be strong enough to carry her own weight, but they do, and her toes brush against the softness of the carpet, then the sharp contrast of tile as she enters the bathroom. She has not bothered to turn any of the lights on, and it will be a long time until the sun will breach the horizon, so her small flat is cloaked in darkness.

Pushing aside the flimsy shower curtain, she turns the familiar silver knob, starting the stream of water out of the shower head. She doesn't bother to check the temperature of the now flowing water before stripping and leaving her night-clothes on the counter by the sink. When she steps under the streams of water, they are still cold, but she doesn't move away from them. Instead she lets the icy liquid freeze her skin, make her shiver. Though she needs a proper shower, she silently wills the water to stay cold, the tips of her fingers brushing along the goose bumps that raise on her arms. She knows she's wasting time, and that she'll probably be late for work, but she doesn't mind much. Standing here, under the cold streams of water that freeze her to the bone, she feels something.

She stays this way until she goes numb. How she even feels herself doing so is long beyond her, she's been numb for so long, she's surprised she can feel anything really. It is finally when she can feel nothing that she switches the setting to hot. She lets out an involuntary sigh as the warmth seeps into her skin, her muscles. It loosens them, and allows her the ability to think properly about the events that prospered yesterday for the first time. The strange happening has taunted her all night, invading her dreams and denying her proper rest.

When she had arrived at the cursed beach, she could have sworn that she was alone. She wasn't quite sure why she continued returning to Bad Wolf Bay, at least once a month, it had only been a source of pain and misery. Against her own better judgement, she had rolled up her pant legs and waded out into the surf, feeling the tide swell and fade along her skin. She had become lost to the world as she delved into the corners of thought, her eyes on the horizon, thinking of days long gone by. It was as she turned to leave and go back to work that she had seen him, a tall man in a suit, standing on the sand not too far away, just watching her. For a brief and wonderful second she had thought that perhaps her Doctor had returned for her at long last. She realizes now, as she squeezes shampoo onto her hands and begins rubbing it into her scalp, how stupid and foolish she had been to think he would ever actually return for her.

She tilts her head back now, rinsing the foamy soap from her hair as she thinks. She had moved to his aid when the man had fallen, and to her utter shock she had felt the double heartbeat of a Time Lord. She had tried to wake him repeatedly, shaking him and talking to him, but it had been in vain. Finally she gave up and called Mickey and Pete, as well as a few others from Torchwood, to get some help when it became blatantly obvious that he wasn't going to wake up any time soon.

She spreads the conditioner into her hair now, remembering telling Mickey that the man they were loading into her father's car was not human. He hadn't believed her until she made him feel the double heartbeat, then he had suggested that it was The Doctor, and oh how she had wanted to believe it was. It seemed like hours before they made it to the Torchwood building and had gotten the man in the infirmary. She had suggested running a DNA test, comparing the man's DNA to that of John. John was- _had been, _she corrected herself mentally, the human metacrisis. She didn't like to think about it, but of course she did. All the time. After the DNA came back negative for a match but positive for a Time Lord, they had taken the man to a confinement room. She had objected of course, but Pete had insisted that because they didn't know who he was and what he was planning, that they needed to take all necessary precautions.

She turns off the water and steps carefully out of the shower now, wrapping the navy blue towel around herself before walking back toward her room. The sky has become gradually lighter since she woke, and early morning sunshine spills through the windows, casting enough light for her to see clearly. Still without turning on any lights, she makes her way to the wardrobe, grabbing the clothing she put out the night before. She dresses quickly, pulling on the dark denim, and fastens the button with a mechanical motion. Moments later she pulls a dark jacket over a powder blue t-shirt she had also put on. Next in her monotonous routine comes her hair, which she simply tosses into a messy ponytail. She has taken to this style for her hair ever since she had decided to grow it out some.

Because her actions every morning have become nothing more than well-rehearsed routine, she finds herself driving to work and not really knowing how exactly she got there. She seems to be doing that a lot. Half the time she has no idea how she has gotten somewhere, and she tells herself that it doesn't matter that she got there, it just matters that she does. It is a weak excuse and both her mother and Mickey had both tell her almost every day that she needs to get on with her life and start actually living, but she can't. She supposes it's too late for living. In many ways she considers herself dead in this universe as well as in her old one. Nothing matters.

It is in this mechanical daze that she walks into her work building. Her watch informs her that she'll be almost twenty minutes late but she doesn't care. What's the worst that could happen? They could fire her, but that doesn't seem to matter much when in her old life, worst case scenario was plain and simple death. Second later and she's stepping through the front doors of the job she's held for about three and a half years now. Pete Tyler's daughter she is, but it has been a long time since people have cared about that. She had created a name for herself that invokes respect and in some cases even awe.

She sighs audibly as she steps out of the lift, walking down a familiar hallway, entering part of the building most Torchwood employees simply called 'The Gun Cage'. Clean white flooring turn black and white walls fade gradually into a rich blue-grey color with each step. The smell of sterility and soap become one of gunpowder and iron. It is familiar and it washes over her, calming her mind which has begun rolling in the past few seconds, mainly at the thought of the man with a double heartbeat within the building.

Her eyes adjust quickly to the light, which is steadily becoming dimmer with each step. Even if her eyes hadn't adjusted as quickly as they did, it wouldn't matter much. She knew this entire section of the building by heart, from the weapons storage behind the mesh wire wall, to the long main wall of computer monitors and radar screens, as well she should, she designed it. Her footsteps were light and fast as she pushed past a gate-like door and walked toward a row of dark grey lockers at the back of the room. It was there that she yanked a black vest, similar to Kevlar, off a hook underneath a tiny placard that bore her name. She pulls it snuggly around her body and fastens it, before turning and making her way toward a group of monitors.

She passes a group of men chatting animatedly in a loose circle, they all scramble up and about at the sight of her, flushing and returning to their work as fast as their bodies will allow them too. She gives the tiniest of smirks at this, rolling her eyes upwards before returning to the radar before her. Her fingers tap along the keys quickly, in practiced and automatic motions, and her eyes narrow in concentration as she works to discover how the Time Lord she met on the beach got there.

The hours pass debilitatingly slow, and ironically there seems to be no alien activity on the planet whatsoever. She silently curses the fact that on the one day she wants to get out and lead a group into handling a dangerous situation, it seems that everything has gone quiet. She hears the members of her team laughing at something that is more than likely mundane somewhere behind her, but it is of little significance, so she merely leaves the Gun Cage. She has left her vest on, as she typically does, and she walks the path she knows by heart without much conscious thought process.

She meets Mickey for lunch, as she always does, and it is a more than welcome relief. Mickey is the only one who has ever truly understood. He is the only one who ever traveled with The Doctor long enough to even have a chance at understanding. She thinks it is because of his knowing that he can still make her smile, make her laugh, much in the way he used to. Perhaps it is not much of a feat, but with him is the only time she has been close to happy since being stranded - no, abandoned - here. She has felt victorious, accomplished, proud, but never happy. Never truly happy since he left her here. Except with Mickey. Sometimes she thinks that when she is around Mickey she's happy.

It is midway through her lunch that she is interrupted by a man from her team. She recognizes him as Chase, Chase Silverman. His close cut blond hair and hard jaw give him a severe look, but she is not fooled by it. She has never been fooled by it. She knows that beneath his serious façade is a childlike personality, but it is not relevant now, as the look he carries is one of utter seriousness.

"He's asking for you Rose." He informs her, his voice low and serious.

"Who is?" She hopes her inital assumption is wrong, and that the man with the double heartbeat, just a few floors below, is sleeping comfortably without thought of her.

"The Time Lord in containment. He's asking for you." He repeats the last part of the phrase, as if she could have forgotten it, as if it didn't make her nervous as hell.

"Are you sure he's asking for me? He could be asking for-" She tries to say something else, to suggest whom the man might mean, but she is cut off by Chase, who seems impatient.

"No. He's asking specifically to speak with Rose Tyler." She feels her mouth go dry and, not trusting her voice, she nods and stands. She waves an apologetic goodbye to Mickey and follows Chase down the stairs, ignoring the lift entirely as they headed deeper into the secretive building. Her pace slows considerably as they walk down a long corridor, rows white doors marking containment rooms on either side of the hallway. They are heading to the last door on the right, and she pauses entirely before opening it.

When she opens it, her eyes scan the room before her. Everything is cloaked in pale colors, ranging from the stark white walls to the pale grey bed sheets on the clinical-like bed bolted to the wall in the corner. _He _sits on the bed, clothed in dark grey cotton clothing. He wears a smirk that gives him a slightly menacing look, and when he speaks his voice is fluid and hypnotic.

"Hello, Rose Tyler."

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**Yeah, I know that there hasn't been a lot of dialogue, and I think Rose might have been kind of OOC, but I wanted to highlight the differences The Doctor leaving her had. Anyways, thanks for reading, I'll see you next chapter, and reviews are like cookies. **


	3. Introductions

**A/N: Okay, long author note time, yeah, yeah, you hate me I know. Okay so the reason it's taken me so long to post is because I got this super irritating virus on my laptop where it was a fake FBI Ransom scam thingy, and I ended up having to restore to factory setting, resulting in the loss of ALL my stories, videos, pictures, you name it, it's gone. So the past few days have been spent trying to recover as much as I could. I blame the virus and my newfound addiction to Torchwood.. So yeah, sorry it's taken so long, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

*Insert humorous disclaimer here*

**Warnings: Some mild cursing, but that's really about it. **

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_"Hello Rose Tyler"_

His voice, as transfixing as he makes it, does not seem to at all sway her. Her expression is held in repose and she looks, if anything, nothing more mildly surprised that he knows her name. She nods shortly to the young man in military-like uniform, who dips his head respectfully and backs out, closing the door behind him.

As soon as the other man leaves the room, The Master stands and saunters toward her, a smirk twisting his otherwise handsome features. He is stopped by the severe look he gains from the blond. Her eyes, he notices, are much harder and colder than The Doctor had ever remembered them as. Intrigued, he now examines her, his eyes drinking in every bit of her hungrily, and he thinks he will never have seen enough. Though clearly the same person, she has changed so much from the girl that ran away with a man and his blue box.

"You know my name." She states bluntly, and the words draw his eyes back to her face. Obviously this is what she had wanted, because her look shifts into her own smirk for a fraction of a second before falling back under it's clearly well practiced mask. "How?" He simply flashes her his signature charming smile, the one that won over and wooed many human women, Lucy included, and takes a step backwards.

"We have a..." He pauses for a second, pretending to search for the correct word, though he knows well what he will say. He always knows what he will say, it is how he gets what he wants. Breaking this girl without laying a hand on her will be nothing more than child's play, and he will enjoy every second of it. "Mutual friend." He finished.

"You're talking about The Doctor." He nods, bored but easily pretending to be intensely interested in the conversation. He studies her face, searching for any sign of weakness to appear, searching for a flash of pain behind her eyes, or a tightening of the jaw, but he is not rewarded. If this girl cares about The Doctor in any way like he did her, she is excellent at hiding things, perhaps as skilled as he himself has become. He quickly reminds himself to leave his musings and focus on charming the girl called Rose Tyler.

"Yes I am, but being imprisoned here hasn't removed my good manners, please, sit down." he offers, gesturing toward the sparse bed in the corner that is made neatly. He steps away, remembering the reluctance of some humans for physical closeness.

"I'll stand, thanks." He can tell she doesn't trust him, and he smiles a secret smile to himself. Perhaps she is smarter than he previously thought. That will make it much more fun, it's always more fun when they are smart, when they fight back. It is way too easy when they were stupid or naive, easy was boring. He didn't like boring. "You're a Time Lord. The Doctor said that he was the last one." He chuckles darkly, his eyes closing for a brief second.

"Well he was obviously wrong." He pauses again, then turns and gives her his best rendition of a sympathetic smile. "It's clear now that you didn't know him as well as he did you. Everyone who has met The Doctor knows that he lies."

"Yeah." The word is accompanied by a short laugh that is more of a bark, and he sees her face change for the first real time, though it is only for a brief moment. He thinks he sees anger burning behind her eyes, not directed at him, but at The Doctor. As soon as he sees this, he grins internally, perhaps he has found a way in, a sore spot in which to press the blade. As soon as the look is there of course, it's gone, and she's giving him a stony expression. "The point is, there are no Time Lords in this dimension, so that leaves me with the obvious conclusion that you're from another one." He can't help but to smile at this, no wonder The Doctor had liked her. She is oh-so feisty.

"Well you conclude correctly. I had the exact same thought when I saw you. You see, in my universe, the girl called Rose Tyler is dead, killed at the Battle of Canary Wharf." He begins drumming his fingers on his leg, keeping them in tune with the drumbeat that pounds relentlessly as ever in his head. He thinks he might have seen a bit of emotion bubbling to the surface, but it is quickly buried. She's strong, he gives her that.

"So how did you get here, then?" Her tone firmly declares that she is getting impatient, and he sees her eyes move toward the door. He smiles wider, her instincts are kicking in, telling her that he is a danger. She should leave, she should run, but she won't. He knows she won't. Just the fact that her instincts tell her to stay away will multiply her curiosity countless times. She wants to know more, he can see it. It is this human curiosity and stubbornness that will make her easy prey, but for now he'll play along.

"Well Rose, I was hoping you'd be able to tell me. Last thing I remember, I died. Woke up on that beach of yours." He notes how her eyebrows twitch as he mentions the fact that he died, and he notices the push of her tongue against the inside of her cheek as she bites back what assumes is a sarcastic remark. "I haven't regenerated, and I'm in a different universe. I have no way of explaining that as of now, but I had hoped that maybe you and your team," he stretches the last word, drawing it out and making it linger for a few seconds more than necessary, "Would be able to help me." Slyly, he changes his expression to one of sad resignment. It has it's obvious effect, because she gives him a look similar to an encouraging smile and looks like she wants to step closer.

"We'll see what we can do about getting you home," She assures him. Ha! She actually is assuring him! "But first, I'll need to know your name." She is still looking at him, and he realizes with a shock that he doesn't _want _to speak his name to her. He doesn't want her to think badly of him because of the name, once coined a 'psychologist's field day'. He quickly chalks it up to the fact that he needs her to trust him, and he looks down, feigning shyness.

"It sounds kind of odd, but I go by the name The Master.." He sees a strange look ghost across her face, so he quickly amends. "But I go by Harold when I need a name.. Harold Saxon." She nods, her confidant air returning to her. He leans against the wall now, allowing the conversation to fade off. The silence that falls between is not awkward, however nor is it easy. They are both testing the waters, deciding who has the higher and more stable ground.

He'll never admit it aloud, but he knows that it is, in fact, her who has the upper ground. He is so far out of his element it's not even funny. Everything here is different, a _lot _happened when he was knocked out. He is not longer wearing his suit, now his clothing is nothing more than thin cotton, all white, and it's unnerving. The room is also small, barely six foot by six foot, much smaller than any room he's used to. Perhaps he was spoiled in his life as Harold Saxon, but knowing that doesn't help. He feels like a wild animal, used to running free and being a perfect predator, that has suddenly been shoved into a tiny cage.

He keeps a smile plastered over his face, but he has a feeling it doesn't look sincere, and to be honest he doesn't much care. She isn't backing away, she isn't acting afraid, and to him his need to break her, to claim her, to _own _her is merely increased by the fact that she doesn't fear him.

"Well... Harold." She starts, and he snaps his eyes to her, a new burning intensity behind him. He feels his pulse speed up considerably when she uses the name he's answered to so easily in the past months, and he wants to know, scratch that, he _needs _to know what she wants to tell him. "There's probably something you should know." She pauses, and he thinks he might just go mad waiting for her to finish her statement. "I'm not as naïve as you seem to think I am. I saw that look in your eye on the beach, and it's the same look I see now. I'm a lot of things _Master, _but I'm not stupid." He feels an entirely unexpected rush similar to that of adrenaline when she speaks his name, like a fire lit up his blood. It takes him a second or two to find his words again, and for him, that's a huge deal.

"You're very observant, Miss Tyler." Is all he says in reply, and despite his attempt to make it a purr, something he's done on countless occasions, his voice sounds embarrassingly shaky. "Might just save your life someday." She just tilts her heads at him and gives him a smile that, despite the fact he's never seen it before, seems hopelessly familiar, and walks toward the door. She steps out, and leans back against the ajar door, she then turns to look at him.

"Already has. Countless times." And he hears the metallic click of the door looking behind her. As soon as the door shuts completely, he lets his back against the wall and allows his body to slump against the white paint. He's alone now, left with nothing but his thoughts.

Perhaps that's not the smartest idea. Not only is he trapped in a little room in uncomfortable clothing, he's also in a universe he shouldn't be in, and his body is making him aware of it too. Ever since he woke up he's felt this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that makes him feel nervous and a little bit nauseous. It's the most uncomfortable he thinks he's ever felt. Add that to the fact that he's painfully aware that the security camera in the corner is watching his every move, he's feeling a little bit off-put.

But he's thinking, and that's what makes him able to bear it. He's thinking about how he could get out if he wanted to, how he could charm his way clean out of Torchwood with nobody noticing, it would be so easy, so simple, he can almost taste it already. As soon as he was out he could easily start over, find a place of power, try to find a way to recreate a TARDIS, but he won't. He'll stay here, talk to the girl Rose Tyler, gain her trust, break her, make her his, use her to extract as much pain from The Doctor as he can, because that's what he does.

In spite of himself, he moves to sit on the small bed, leaning his back once more against the wall. There's a sudden change in the light, and he feels dimmer light dance against his skin. He laughs gently, leave it to humans. He knows very well that the light is beaming down vitamin D to keep him healthy. How utterly ironic, considering what his life has been for the past two years. He taps the drumbeat out on his leg as he looks back toward the door that Rose exited out of. He spoke quietly to himself, his voice like a nursery rhyme coo that would sound almost endearing, were it not for the meaning behind the words that made them truly horrifying.

"Such a pretty girl... So broken... Such a pity... My little wolf."

Then all the lights went out. He is thrust into darkness, and he doesn't mind, he allows the lights to fade around him, to be enveloped by the darkness that the human race so desperately tries to avoid, and in that still darkness, four more words ring out, whispered they are, but they echo, for they are powerful words.

"Oh, my little wolf."

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**As always, thank you for reading, and if you review you get a batch of double chocolate chip cyber cookies. Or a hug. Take your pick. And suggestions orideas for the next chapters? Let me know and I'll see if I can incorporate them. **


	4. Musing

**A/N: So here's the next chapter, and I don't want to be one of the people that completely changes The Master's personality and makes him a wonderful person and shiz, cause if he ever gets even close to that it will have taken a ****_long _****time. So here we get to see some more of his true colors. Hope you like, and I hope I stay in character relatively well. **

**Disclaimer: Whilst I would like to believe I write the characters okay, I do not own Doctor Who or any of its characters. **

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It has been almost two days exactly since Rose spoke to Harold Saxon, and it is the time during these two days that she has learned that, at least in this case, out of sight does _not _mean out of mind. Nearly every second since she left the small containment room forty-eight hours ago has been dominated by unspoken questions, thoughts, and musings about the enigmatic man, and, if she's being completely honest with herself, it's driving her a bit mad.

There are so many things she wants to know. She wants to know how he got here, why he's here, and how he knows The Doctor. She wants to know why he looks vaguely familiar, and she wants to know what he was doing on Bad Wolf Bay. Though there are many things she wants to know, most prominent among them is the _need _to know what that glint in his eye was. She had seen it on the beach when she first saw him, and she had seen it in the room. It was animalistic, predatory, something almost primal, and she couldn't help but get the feeling it was directed at her. While the fact that it was focused on her was confusing, it was beyond that.

When she looked in his eyes on the beach, she saw something else, like a darkness that carried so much raw emotion it was nearly overwhelming. The insides of his eyes had been heartbreaking and infuriating and electrifying all at once. The confusion and mystique that seemed to surround the Time Lord, and it was very distracting. So distracting, in fact, that it had almost cost her. By all accounts, he is the sole reason that she is in her current state.

She sits on the cold chair in Medical Bay, the smell of disinfectant and various medicines spicing the air with a contorted aroma, her fingers clenching along the bottom of the metal seat. A middle-aged gentleman is slowly and expertly injecting medicine out of a syringe directly into a large gash that begins on the left side of her lower back and stretches over her spine to the right of her middle back, the burning of the medicine and the depth of the wound the reason for her vice grip on the bottom of the chair. She refuses the numbing medication that would make this easier for the same reason she stepped under the cold water in the shower. She's simply glad she can feel something.

Perhaps it is to a degree sick, but she takes shelter within the pricks of pain that shoot through her in time with the needle's punctures. The slight pain that shoots through her veins with each prick reminds her that she's alive, still breathing, and that she's survived through worse, though the last reminder is not as greatly appreciated as the others, for fact that the times she survived through worse were with _him. _The medic tells her that he's finished administering the antibiotic and he begins meticulously bandaging the area. She smiles a smile she's trained herself to use over the years and nods, though she thinks she sees a hint of recognition in the man's eyes, and he knows she won't come if it hurts. He tells her how lucky she was that the wound didn't rupture the fluid casing around her spine and she agrees, lapsing back into silence rather than striking up conversation, and her thinks back to the incident that led her here.

She and Jason, her second and command and one of her few friends, had been on a stake out nearly all night in front of a vet's office, waiting patiently for a specific teenager to come out. Well, 'teenager' used lightly. They had countless eyewitnesses, whom they had obviously retconned, that had seen the young man brutally murder an elderly homeless man, a woman getting into her car, a man and his dog on a walk, and perhaps the most brutal murder, two young children walking home from school- by means of a dagger that sprang out of his right hand. It had been the first semi-dangerous call in the past two days, and Rose had leaped at it, wanting desperately to get away from work after the encounter with The Master/Harold Saxon that morning. She was _not _trying to get away from him, or at least that's what she kept telling herself.

To make a long story short, the plan became null and void when the 'teenager' scaled a chain link fence with inhuman speed and Jason had gone darting after. Thinking fast, Rose remembered that all the attacks had happened extremely close to water, and it had been an assumption that the creature gained some sort of power from the water. She then proceeded to realize that he was running straight toward a lake, and that Jason was right behind him. She had taken the only shortcut she knew, and had barely managed to get there in time, in which the creature had decided she was an easier target.

The dagger like growth in the creature's palm had dug into her back, the distraction she hadn't even known was there slowing her reflexes, and obviously having thought she was dead, had gone after Jason. The second it turned for him, she proceeded to roll over and empty her clip into its head. Her back just about exploding in agony, she relied heavily on Jason in getting back to the SUV and back to Torchwood to be treated. Turns out the creature's dagger had held some sort of venom that caused excruciating pain in order to immobilize its victim, and she had felt it for hours before the medics could purge it entirely from her system as morphine and the like had done nothing.

She woke up at about eight P.M., about seventeen hours since the incident, and they had allowed her to go home, provided she got plenty of sleep, and she did, stumbling into bed blindly without changing. The next morning she repeated the process from the day before yesterday, though she left the bandages on and didn't scrub her back at all. She had walked back into work on time this morning, and had promptly gone to the medic for help in changing her bandages.

She doesn't flinch away from the cool brush of the medic's fingers against her side as he begins carefully wrapping almost her entire torso in white bandaging, and she quickly fights down the urge to actually lean into the touch. It's in no way due to attraction to the medic, not only is he a married man- a rarity for Torchwood employees- but she's also not interested in any kind of relationship. It's just been so long since any physical contact with another human being. It's been weeks even since she last hugged her mother. She doesn't move into the touch though, she sits perfectly still, keeping her impeccable grip of the walls of self control she's put up around herself in the past five years since she was first taken from her universe.

She should feel exposed, as she sits on the chair, her torso naked with the obvious exception of her bra, with the medic right there but she doesn't, she's used to this. She's been in the medical ward many times since she's worked here, it's nothing new. She might as well be clothed at this point for the amount of bandaging that's covering her back and lower stomach. It's when the door opens and two people walk in, that she is surprised and has the desire to reach for her shirt, but she doesn't, she remains motionless. She doesn't like not being able to see them, they're behind her, but she won't move now as the doctor's hand stills on her side and he nods.

"Be with you in a moment." He says as he continues the wrapping, and she can feel he's almost finished.

"Okay..." She hears Chase's nervous voice from behind her, and she smiles at the thought of his ears turning pink like they no doubt are.

"Of course." The second voice makes her feel certain her heart just stopped for a second. Unmistakably Saxon, she wants to get her shirt as quickly as possible, and as the medic finishes, she does just that, pulling it over her head with as much speed as she can without making her back twinge.

"What's wrong with him?" The physician asks, his eyes grazing over Saxon, and Rose can't help but think that he just took the words from her.

"Nothing really, but we need to see if the amount of void stuff on him has gone down." The doctor nods and walks quietly into a storage closet. It's been years since the need to look for void stuff, so the small machine he is looking for that detects and measures the void stuff will probably take him awhile to find. Rose is about to leave, not particularly wanting to be in the same room as the Time Lord, and it isn't made easier that she's noticed that his eyes have yet to leave her since he's walked in the door. Fate is no closer to giving her a break, it seems, because as her hand reaches for the door, Chase's beeper goes of, and he turns to look at her.

"Rose? I hate to ask but could you...?" He motions to Saxon, and she for the first time notices that his hands are cuffed behind his back. She nods, and steps back to where she had been standing.

"I'll take him back to his room when he's done." She affirms, and Chase leaves, leaving the two of them alone in the room. She's simply glad he's staying quiet, but it doesn't last long, and she's not surprised. If what's she's seen means anything, not being able to shut up is a typical Time Lord trait. _No, _she admonishes herself, _don't think of that._

"We're calling my cell a room now?" He asks, raising his eyebrows and turning to look at her. He gets no reaction, so he tries something else. "So you seem pretty comfortable in a hospital setting." As he says this, his eyes watch her, and she fights the urge to look into them again, to see if what she sees is the same.

"Yes." Is all she says, but it's clear he's not done talking.

"I'll bet that's because _he _put you in one plenty of times." He growls, his voice not the velvety almost-purr that it's been at so far when speaking to her.

"Stop it." She snaps back, and she doesn't even care how furious it sounds.

"Why? He did, didn't he? That's all he does, hurt people." She looks at him, her eyes blazing with an angry fire, and what she sees makes her more angry. He's smiling. He's _fucking enjoying this! _

"Shut up." She replies forcefully, determined to keep control over herself.

"Of course he never _means _to, he just does. Especially to those he cares about, and oh does he love his little human pets. But you, you were different. He loved you," He snarls. He's watching her, and she knows it. She won't give him the satisfaction of winning. _"Loves_ you," he corrects, before continuing. "But obviously not enough, I mean, because he brought you back here. Hurt you again. But this was deeper than any physical scar wasn't it? Tell me Rose, did he break your heart?" His words are laced with venom, and he watches her, waiting for the flinch, and he's not rewarded, but he'll push until he is.

"I said _shut up!_" Her voice remains quiet, but he can almost feel the anger in the words, and yet again it's not entirely directed at him. Thankfully, the doctor walks back into the room, turning on the scanner as he does so. Saxon stiffens, and Rose smiles. He can't move, and she knows it. The scanner completely immobilizes the body in order to more accurately measure the amount of background radiation one got when traveling through the Void. Saxon had been coated in the stuff when he showed up on Bad Wolf Bay, so they were naturally running tests to see the effect the stuff had on his body. By the time he can move again, she's called someone to take him back to his cell. He smiles.

"Running Rosie? Guess it figures, all he ever did was run." He laughs darkly as she leaves, and allows himself to be led by the new officer to his cell.

Rose Tyler is running, she knows it, she's left without taking any pain medication, and she knows she'll regret it, but right now her pager is going off, and she needs to get to her team. She needs to do her job, because it's all she has left.

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**So yeah, The Master is an ass. Then again, he always has been, so nothing new there. I wanted to point out a few things for clarification. **

**1) It's been years for Rose since Journey's End, because as mentioned in Journey's End, the timeline for Pete's World runs faster. **

**2) I know Mickey shouldn't be in Pete's World because he returned to his universe in Journey's End. To be honest I just forgot about that, but he might get back to his universe later. Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? **

**3) I know I said that The Master hasn't regenerated, but in my mind, when he came into this universe, his hair turned blonde. I just think he's sexier that way. ;) If you want an explanation, just chalk it down to wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff. **

**So there you have it. Hope you enjoyed. Reviews are much appreciated and I'll see ya next chapter!**


	5. First Blood

**A/N: Hiya! I know it's been awhile, but I really kind of enjoyed writing this chapter, mainly because I knew what it was building up to for the end, and it made me feel kinda happy when it was done. Just so you guys know, if you haven't figured it out, this is an AUish situation thingy where Season 3 and Season 4 kind of switched places. So there ya go for anyone who was confused. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, so many things would be different it's not even funny. So no. All rights go to BBC. **

**Warnings: There's a fair amount of cussing and blood in this chapter, but nothing too horrible. I think mention one sexual thing, but nothing explicit or anything. **

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Somewhere deep inside the building that houses Torchwood London, there is a darkness, a darkness of almost palpable density. There's a nearly soundless stirring in the darkness, though no motion can be seen by speculating eyes. There are a pair of eyes that into the darkness from a security camera, though the hardened brown orbs seek no purchase on the inner secrets of this darkened room. Quite the contrary is true, as the eyes that gaze into the blackness are empty to the point of glassy. A sudden flash of movement and the black screen is gone, replaced by the glowing Torchwood logo.

The Master jerks suddenly as if he were electrocuted, before allowing his muscles to relax back into the comfortable position that he's taken up in the departure of the human girl. His hopes of an external light source have long since been crushed, and he revels in the absence of light. He's found a solace in the welcoming darkness, a comfort that he cannot feel in the light, and he almost purrs in delight.

His fingers drum lightly against the wall, depicting both the noise in his head and the rapid double heartbeat that marks his superiority to the apes that walk along planet Earth. He shifts his position slightly, his back pressed into the tight corner of his cell, one leg dangling casually over the edge of the bed and the other pulled up almost to his chest. One arm slung over his knee and the other tucked against the wall, he chuckles darkly. He wonders when they will be back for him, as they no doubt will, and what tests they will run on him when they do.

At the musings of future tests, he is forcibly reminded of the last test done on him, and it's with a great amount of willpower that he forces down a shudder. The small device that measures background radiation set him on edge. It wasn't painful or anything that would really harm him, but it was the fact that it took away his ability to move of his own free will that bothered him. He was unable to do anything except breathe, and he had felt so incredibly vulnerable it had almost made him sick.

It is now, as he rests comfortably in the darkness that he swears to himself that he will never allow himself to feel so incredibly vulnerable and weak again. His eyes open, and his eyes flick uselessly around the room, unable to see anything, including his own hand that he waves just inches from his own face.

His face, his entire body really, he decides, is a curious thing. He's glimpsed himself in reflections throughout this building and he has been pleasantly surprised. Though he has kept the same body, there are some subtle differences that he didn't notice when he woke up on that beach. His hair is considerably lighter, dirty blonde now, and he freely admits to himself that he likes it. Along with his hair, his eyes have changed their hue somewhat as well, becoming somehow a brown close to black. He could be mistaken, but he's also fairly sure that he's gotten a little bit taller as well. Overall, nothing major has changed, and the changes he has observed he's rather pleased with. He's still not quite sure why his body has changed in the slight ways that it has, but he decides he'll find that out in due time.

Thinking things like this through is the only way he's managed to stay balanced on the precipice of madness in this tiny room. Were it not for the things he had to wonder about and consider he thinks he would have lost his mind several days ago. He's been in this isolation for almost a week now, and he's running out of things to wonder about, but he supposes he'll just have to figure something else out when he does run out. The only plus that he's realized so far is that he doesn't feel nearly as sick as he did when he first crossed over the Void, and he guesses that it's a good thing.

There's the sound of footsteps just outside, and while it peaks his interest, he doesn't move or in any way betray the fact that he can hear quiet murmurs just outside the door. He can't hear what either of them are saying, of course, but he knows right off the bat who one of them is. There's a quiet, female voice that could only belong to one, Rose Tyler, as well as the joining voice of a man. A small part of him wants to lean closer to the door, to attempt to eavesdrop on the pair, but he manages to restrain himself in favor of resting the back of his skull against the wall. As he expects, the lights flicker on and the door opens. He blinks a few times to adjust himself to the drastic lighting change, but otherwise he pays no attention to the fact that anything has changed.

Sure enough, it _is _Rose that walks into his little cell, followed shortly by a young black man, probably a few years older than her at most. His ever alert mind flickers back to memories that belonged to The Doctor, of the man called Mickey. He blinks a few more times at the wall, before he speaks.

"Well Rose, guess you've stopped running, though I kind of think you might only be here because of Mickey-boy." He tosses into the air carelessly, turning to look at them, a smirk-like smile twisting it's way along his face.

"Don't push it Saxon." She snaps, clearly not the least bit amused, though Mickey does look a bit surprised at the very least that he knows his name. "Right now 'm your only shot of getting out of this cell, so you _really _don't want to piss me off."

"Oh, so we're actually calling it a cell now? Yay. I always do like honesty." He says, turning his head toward them, obviously false enthusiasm coloring his tone. He swings his left leg off the bed to join the other and sits up a bit straighter, looking over the duo closely. "But really, Rose, I was really hoping that the next time you came to see me, was because you wanted to see _me." _He puts on his most charming voice, tilting his head to the side.

"Yeah, because that's _really _going to happen." Her voice is cold, broken to a degree that for the briefest second, he thinks he might actually regret spitting the harsh words at her the other day. He quickly shoves any thought of such feelings away, and looks at her, trying to see closer, something he might have missed.

"That hurts Rose, and here I was thinking that our little mutual friend might just make you trust me a little bit more. Obviously that's not the case, but I can't help wonder why not." He wills his words into the hypnotic rhythm that he knows so well. For the first time, Rose does as he expects, and that alone is unexpected. She allows the slightest bit of emotion to slip past the carefully set up mask. He grins internally and presses harder. "Tell me why, Rose. Why don't you trust me if I'm a friend of The Doctor? Time was, you'd follow him into anything, trust anything he said was okay to trust. What, just cause he's not here, you won't trust me? Seems kind of hypocritical if you ask me." He sees anger flash under her features, and when she speaks again, it's so quiet he almost misses it at first.

"I am _not _the little girl who ran off with The Doctor."

"Well I know that, don't I. That's what he does, he makes you grow up, makes you change. And the worst part is he makes you think that you want to, until he leaves you alone and you realize that you're not the person you were." He's pressing the blade further in now, and he can almost taste the blood. Oh, how he loves this thrill, to have someone almost completely bent to his will.

"Shut up." The anger's manifesting itself in her voice now, and he finds it an extreme turn on, to see that fire blaze behind eyes he feels sure were once warm and gentle. "You know nothing, don't that you can even remotely understand." He stands now, taking a step toward her. Mickey takes a step to the left, ready to intervene if he needs to, but The Master knows he won't until it's probably too late. His voice drops as he nears her, the distance closing until there's about a foot between them. His voice is a growl now.

"Then tell me, Rose Tyler. I won't presume to know, if you'll tell me." She stares at him, her eyes boring into his, and for a second there's a fierce battle of dominance as neither of them will look away from the other. He's waiting for the break, the shatter, the tears, the pain. He's waiting for the rush that comes with a victory. None of it comes, instead he's met with probably the fiercest sounding words he thinks he's ever heard, and the words are full of such emotion he almost wants to back away. Almost.

"There is _nobody _in this or in any other universe that I hate more than I hate The Doctor. All he leaves behind him is death and pain. It's like Davros himself said. He claims to abhor violence, when instead he's turning those around him into his own weapons of destruction. I fell for it once _Master, _but I will never be used in such a way again. Rose Tyler died the second she spoke her first word to The Doctor. He's an egotistical, arrogant bastard, and I swear to God if you mention him again, I will kill you." Her hand has flicked to her waist, where now that he's looking he sees a serrated knife settled easily in a sheath, and then his eyes move back to her, two pairs of frozen, broken eyes locking onto each other for the briefest second.

"Will you? Would you really, Rose?" He murmurs, taking the final step between them, their bodies mere inches apart. Electricity soars through his veins as she reaches up with both hands and thoroughly shoves him backwards, his back pressed firmly against the white wall behind him. To his surprise, she steps forward, whipping the knife from her belt and pressing the serrated edge against his skin, beads of dark blood dripping from beneath the silver blade as the edges of each serration press through the top few layers of skin.

"You tell me." She breathes, her face just inches from his, but he's not paying much attention to that, because he's just about stopped breathing. In the seconds that she's closed the distance between them, something he never thought would happen has occurred. The drumbeat has stopped. For one blinding second, he's terrified by the silence, and then he's not quite sure what he's doing.

Their lips are crashing together in something unexplainable and reckless. It's nothing gentle, it's nothing beautiful. She presses her tongue against his lip, and for once he surrenders in this battle, and then he's regained control of himself and is thoroughly snogging her back. He's not sure how she's not passing out, considering his respiratory bypass has long since kicked in, but he doesn't care. All that he knows in this moment is that Rose Tyler is impossibly close to him, and she's done the absolute impossible. She's stopped the drums, she's given him this brief glimpse of peace.

Then there's a flash of pain, and she pulls away. She's bitten down roughly on his bottom lip as she yanks away from him suddenly. Her teeth have bitten his skin as she takes a staggering step backwards, knife still in hand. He sees something in her eyes now, something that wasn't there before. A darkness, similar to the one he saw in his own whenever he looked in a mirror, a wild abandon, and a look of total freedom that he envies. She turns and leaves the room, followed directly by Mickey, who looks horrified.

He leans back against the wall, looking toward the ceiling. His own blood drips from his lip, down his chin, along the hollow of his throat, and into his white shirt from where she bit his lip as she pulled away. He gulps in a large breath of air, trying to recollect his now extremely scattered thoughts.

As the door clicks shut behind Rose, the drum beat begins again, the rhythmic pattern taunting him. He stands there, wondering what the hell he's just done.

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**Oh shit. What? Yep. *grins mischievously* So yeah, as always I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'll see you next time. Don't make me beg for reviews my lovelies. Please, feel free to take a cookie when you leave, but please be kind to other readers and only take two so there are enough to go around. :D**


	6. Silence

**EEEP! 48 follows and 35 comments! Only 5 Chapters. Whoa, that's a first for me. Thank you all! *huggles***

**A/N: Hey guys, I'm so incredibly sorry for taking this long to update this story. I've had exams and real life and other things to deal with. If it makes you feel any better, I have another story that goes along to the eventual sequel to this one, that's a one shot called The Master and The Wolf. It's got some spoilers for what happens though, so if you want to be surprised, I suggest you don't read it. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own it. Nope. Don't. Thought I did? You were wrong then. **

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"What the hell was that?!" Mickey sounds horrified, but Rose is glad that he at least managed to pick his jaw up off the floor, because quite frankly she had begun to doubt his ability to do so after the look on his face. Had it been in any other situation, she probably would have laughed at his expression, mouth agape like that of a goldfish, but right now she's feeling too conflicted to do much more than breathe. "Rose!"

The tone of his voice is what stops her dead in her tracks. He's somewhere between angry and concerned, and when she slowly turns to face him, she can see the two emotions warring for control. He seems to take a deep breath before speaking again, and it's blatantly obvious he's struggling to keep his voice even.

"What just happened?"

She opens her mouth to answer, shuts it, then opens it again, just for it to close again a second later, because she has no answer for him. She herself has absolutely no idea what just happened, why she did what she did, why she even returned to the room in the first place. She can't explain the fascination held in the man in containment, can't explain the feeling of wariness coupled with excitement that sparks within her, every time she even hears his name, she can't explain any of it.

"Babe," He tries again, using the nickname he still refers to her with on occasion, "What happened? Because I couldn't exactly tell, I mean one second you've got that knife to his throat, and then the next you both look like you're trying to inhale each other, and I couldn't even tell if he kissed you or you kissed him."

"Mickey..." But she can't say anything else, what is there to say?

"I think you should go home." She's startled by the abruptness of his statement, and then she's on defense, cold and authoritative, a way she's never been with Mickey, ever. He must see it in her eyes, because he speaks immediately, his voice overriding her first protests. "I'll talk to Joey, he's running the CCTVs, I'll see if I can get him to wipe the footage of that..." He trails off, not being able to come up with a suitable word for what happened. "But you need to go home, get some rest, get your head straight."

She resents him a little bit for his words, because she can tell that he actually does care, and she doesn't deserve it. But she's also not a child that needs protecting and he needs to understand that as well, so she thinks through her words carefully, picking and choosing each bit of the retaliation before she actually voices it.

"Mickey, you do what you think you need to do, but I'm going to the same. I'm not going home. I'm going to go spend some time with the TARDIS downstairs, if you need me." She sees the objection lighting up in his features, and before he can tell her how she's wrong, she puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine Mick, swear." He still looks doubtful, but she gives her most reassuring smile. "I'm just going to go check on the TARDIS, see how she's doing."

Without waiting to see what he thought about her defense, she turns on her heel and just about runs down the hallway, heading for the stairs. The tapping of her trainers on the rubber-like substance of the stairs echoes off the walls of the stair well as the door closes behind her. It doesn't take long for her to reach the very bottom, and at about four stories underground, not even the lifts go this far down. Her footsteps continue to echo as she veers left down an empty corridor.

She reaches the end, a large sign declaring that the area is restricted for authorized personnel only. Pulling the tag that she wears around her neck away from her body, she twists the small card through her fingers for a moment. The card is small, about the size of a credit card, and all white with the exception of a small barcode on the front of it. Deciding to waste no more time, Rose presses the barcode against the scanner on the side of the door, and with a loud _beep _the door swings open.

The 'room' is actually more the size of an auditorium, scattered through with various bits of technology and weapons - all of which have alien origins. Another sign - seriously, what is it with these people and labels? - near where the wall meets the ceiling on the other side of the room reads "Alien Storage and Containment Room Nine."  
"Hey Rosie!" A male voice yelps out from somewhere near the back of the room, and she has to fight to not roll her eyes at the enthusiasm in his voice.

"Hey Logan.."

A young man pops his head up from behind a bit of machinery, black flyaway hair sticking up in all directions. His wide green eyes are bright as he leaps to his feet and dashes toward her, a childlike grin of glee plastered all across his face. Logan, being completely and utterly brilliant, always managed to stay happy, despite the constant undermining from his colleagues. Not only is he one of the leads in reverse engineering alien technology, but he's also one of the few people who can call Rose Tyler a friend. Over the past two years she's taken him a bit under her wing, talking to him and teaching him whenever there was something he didn't understand, and he soaked the knowledge up like a sponge. In many ways he's come to be kind of a younger brother to her.

"Here for the TARDIS again?" He questions, bounding up to her like an excitable puppy. Rose smiles and nods in affirmation, grinning at the pleading look that instantly appears on his face.

"C'mon then.." After a moment of deliberation, she moves toward the far right corner of the room, skirting around bits of metal and uncataloged alien artifacts. Neatly in the back corner is something that, to the naked eye, wouldn't look a bit out of place.

A concrete pillar, the exact same color and texture as the wall that makes up the underground storage, is pressed neatly in the corner, looking for all the world like it belongs there. Gently, Rose reaches out her hand, laying it palm down on the stone, and just above her fingertips a keyhole melts into existence. Smiling gently, she reaches into her pocket for the small key that is kept there, the only key in existence that will ever fit the lock.

She turns the key without hesitation, pushing roughly on the stone after she does so. It is then that the stone behaves in another rather un-stone like way, the slab giving in and revealing itself to be a door that leads into a bigger-on-the-inside ship.

The console room is slightly smaller than the one that belongs to The Doctor, as well as some other differences that distinguish it from it's sister ship. The floor is still wire grating and the console itself is nearly identical to the original, though they are the only similarities. The lighting for the most part is a soft blue color - Usually kept dim, though they quickly brighten up a bit as Rose enters - and there are still supports throughout the room, though rather than coral, they're made of some sort of black metal.

"She's changed." Logan's voice sounds shocked as he places a hand gently on the nearest support and the TARDIS rumbles gently in response. Rose smiles at that a little bit, the ship practically adores Logan, affectionately referring to him as 'The Boy', a nickname reserved for him alone. Mentally, Rose teases the ship that she likes Logan more than her, though she knows well why she likes the boy so much. She likes his upbeat and happy personality, quite a contrast from her own somber one. Her thoughts are interrupted as Logan unknowingly speaks, shattering the reverie. "I mean, she looks different from last time.." He turns to look at Rose, who's already moved forward to lean against the console.

"Bigger on the inside, telepathic ship, and all you notice is that the console room looks different?" She teases him, and he just rolls his eyes, moving on to another subject. As soon as the words are out however, she feels the brush of her ship's mind against her own.

_Be kind to him, My little Wolf. _

Looking slightly indignant about being chastised by the TARDIS, Rose muttered something under her breath that made the ship huff again.  
"So, what all can she do now? It's been about four months since you've let me in, how far's she advanced?" And there it is, the scientific part of him that simply cannot stand to be without suitable answers for a situation. Rose just shrugs, moving to the monitor and speaking as her eyes scan the data quickly.

Almost as soon as the ship had gained sentience, she had begun teaching her Wolf to read and write the language of the Time Lords, and thanks to Bad Wolf, Rose absorbed the information incredibly quickly. Over the past two years Rose has become incredibly fluent in both reading, writing, and speaking in the only language that the TARDIS doesn't translate for her. Thinking through her words, Rose slowly turns away from the monitor, launching into an explanation for her friend.

"She's still really young, only about four years old, an infant by TARDIS standards." Clearly listening in, the TARDIS gives an huff, clearly annoyed at being referred to as an infant, though Rose just rolls her eyes. "What? It's true! Hell, you're the one that told me!" She snaps at the ship, frustration and stress over everything that's happened to the same tearing at the fringes of her self control. "Anyway, like I was saying, because she's so young, it'll be another few months before she can travel in time. Right now she's adding rooms and whatnot, and as you noticed, changing things up as she configured herself better. As far as traveling is concerned... Well, I think it's a safe bet I could take her all the way across the universe and she'd be fine, but she'd need a good long rest before I could get her home."

"Wait, you can actually _fly _her?" His voice radiates an innocent type of wonder as his eyes sweep the entirety of the console room again.

"'Fly' is kind of a relative term, but yes. To an extent. In the old days, TARDISes were meant to be flown by six, but if I really had to I could make do."

"Seriously?"

"No, Logan. The whole world is a lie and I've never said a true word to you." Her words drip with impatient sarcasm, and she sighs to herself as soon as the words leave her mouth. He really meant no harm, it isn't exactly his fault she threatened then proceeded to kiss a Time Lord who's probably a sociopath. "Sorry." The mumbled apology seems to have worked because Logan's face returns to it's happy smile.

"Shall we go exploring in the land of TARDIS Ms. Tyler?" He asks with a smirk, dashing toward the main corridor. Rolling her eyes for the umpteenth time at his childish antics, she waves a hand for him to go on, warning the TARDIS to not get him all lost in the ever growing and changing hallways and rooms. As soon as he's gone, Rose flings herself down on the metal bench-like chair beside the console, rolling her neck backwards.

_What happened, little Wolf? You've not been to see me in many hours, and the primitive machines in this place keep me from speaking to you when you leave me. _

"Yeah, Sorry 'bout that. Really. I'll try to come visit you more often." Her response is pointedly evasive, and she doesn't answer the TARDIS's question of what happened, but rather than let it drop, the ship pressed more firmly against her consciousness.

_You're upset, little Wolf, your mind.. it's so dark. What's happened? _

Giving, in, Rose allows the TARDIS in, showing her the memories of the man who calls himself The Master, and the TARDIS rumbles furiously, though she stubbornly refuses to give her any further information about The Master. Rose is positive the ship knows more than she's giving.

"What?!" She demands angrily, yelling to the empty room and feeling completely mad.

_Just know this, Little Wolf. He is not to be trusted. _

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**Hope you enjoyed, reviews are ALWAYS appreciated. I'm open to most suggestions, so don't be afraid to tell me. **


	7. Nightmares

**A/N: Hey guys, another chapter of Master/Rose sexiness. I love this pairing so much it hurts. I have like two sequels for this story planned, so I'm having trouble restraining myself from getting in too far over my head. **

**Disclaimer: *insert witty disclaimer here***

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The Master is running. What he's running from, he's not entirely sure, nor is he really sure _why _he's running from it anyway. What he does know, however, is that he's dreaming. He can tell that mainly because the drumbeat isn't pounding away madly in his head.

The muscles in his legs twinge with each stride that he struggles to lengthen in a desperate bid to escape something he can't see. Vines and brambles tear at his feet and legs, and he barely registers the fact that he's running through an entirely unfamiliar wood. His lungs ache from the effort the running has cost him, each breath inciting a ragged burning all through his chest. He realizes, with an ounce of something close to horror, that his respiratory bypass isn't working. At all. Both hearts pound wildly in his chest as he continues to struggle for breath, pace never slackening.

Unprecedented panic raises within him when the pain in his lungs is made worse by the intruding presence of smoke that scrapes its way through him with each and every pant. The roar of flame seems to surround him, and he can't exactly tell if he's running toward or away from the fire that feels suspiciously like it's closing in. He barely manages to dodge a blazing log that nearly falls onto him, and he smells the more acrid scent of his own suit jacket burning.

Still without stopping, he sheds the jacket, letting it slither to the dirt without a second thought. He's abruptly cut off by a wall of flame, and he barely manages to skid to a stop before it. Thinking quickly, he dashes to the left, ignoring the searing pain that shoots up his back. No doubt the flames are lapping at his shoulder blades now, and the heat is becoming close to unbearable. He's not sure how much longer he'll be able to remain coherent, the lack of his respiratory bypass making his mind hazy. Blackness creeps around the edges of his vision, but he presses on, growing in his desperation to escape. And then he hears the screaming.

It starts quietly, and he's not quite sure if he's actually hearing it or if it's in his head. He thinks it might actually be both. It's the screaming of millions and within seconds it drowns out the roar of the burning forest around him, and it continues to get louder and louder, screams full of anguish and agony. It's so loud, far too loud, and it's not long before he simply cannot take it anymore. He drops to his knees, hands pressed over his ears and curls in upon himself. Knees pressed against his chest and forgetting that he's dreaming, he lets loose a low moan, praying to whatever deity that may or may not exist to let the flames take him now. He'll do anything to escape this.

The screams seem to die down some, and he finally manages to unfurl from the fetal position he's adopted for what seems like several eternities. He's no longer in the forest, but everything's still burning. Grasses dance around him, the flora so dark red it's hard to distinguish from the flames themselves. Silver leaves rain down, many of which flicker with the deadly element. He's on Gallifrey and he's hearing his people die. But then there's a sound rising above the laments.

A wolf's howl, soft and wavering, rings out above the heartbreaking noise of the Time Lords' death. It makes the air around him quiver as well and it invades his mind, inexplicably soothing his panic. As the howl dies out, the screaming does as well, and though he's still standing alone on a burning Gallifrey, he's completely calm, as if he hadn't been running just a second ago.

How long he's alone in the silence, he's not sure, when without warning the wolf's howl pierces the air once again, though this time it's not in his head, and it doesn't calm him. It makes his very bones tremble in fear of a raw power he cannot even fathom. He whirls around, and it's standing not five meters from him.

There's no mistaking the creature for anything other than a she-wolf, ears pricked forward with interest, it almost looks like nothing more than a beast. Almost. Her jet black fur lays sleekly against her body in a savage beauty, her body angled in a way that looks a bit too human, but the main thing is the creatures eyes. Pure golden and flashing with deadly knowledge, the animal scrutinizes him with a look that, dare he say it, looks nothing more than forgiving. Her eyes hold all of time, and suddenly, he is nothing but an eight year old child, staring once more into time itself.

Without warning, she tosses her head toward the sky and looses a cry that breaks his hearts. The sound is misery itself, the very essence of brokeness, it brings tears to his eyes. And then the she-wolf changes. She's still the same being, that much he's sure of, the eyes are the same, and that gives it away. Suddenly her fur is dull and matted with blood, and there's not a bit of the animal that's not covered in a scar or gash beneath the fur. She's still beautiful, but in a much more savage way. And he wants to destroy whatever did this to the creature, who broke something so amazing.

"I'm sorry.." He barely even registers his own voice as he speaks to the creature, stepping backwards, away, because he cannot bear to look at what's been done. The wolf's upper lip curls, teeth lethal white against black lips, and she steps toward him, closer and closer, and he stops backing away. For once he's not the Master, for once, he's the one submitting, and for once, he doesn't care. He thinks his own eternal death might be worth it to spare this magnificent she-wolf the smallest bit of agony.

He drops to his knees, his eyes still locked on the glorious creature before him, and she looks right back at him. He thinks she's staring into his very soul, everything that makes him who he is, and he's ashamed. Golden and brilliant, her eyes meet his and she begins to approach him, shoulders thrust forward and pointed muzzle tilted downward. His eyes slide closed as he waits for the death that will surely come. And then she's so close he can feel warm breath dance against his neck, his face, but he doesn't move. And then he feels warm fur press against his chest, and he knows without even opening his eyes that the head of the she-wolf is pressed against him.

Unexpected warmth courses through him, as he feels acceptance and forgiveness radiate from... from where? He can't tell. He thinks it might be from the she-wolf, and his hearts are breaking all over again, because he doesn't deserve this, doesn't want this. What 'this' is he doesn't even know, but he knows he's not worthy of it. And then it's like the kiss with Rose, the silence is completely terrifying, but he doesn't move, because he'll survive the terror as long as he needs to. Because for once, it's worth it.

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He wakes gently, a rarity for him. Usually when he sleeps he wakes up with a cry of terror, even as he lived the life of Harold Saxon. He curls his knees up to his chest and rests his forehead against them, curling in upon his lanky form as he fights the urge to press his hands over his ears. He wants to know why. Well, more to the point, he wants to know why the noise in his head seems to have gotten even louder. The drumbeat that has tormented him for so long now, sometimes so quiet he can almost ignore it, has increased to a volume that borders on the precipice of physical pain. He briefly wonders whether or not this pain is punishment for the brief relief he was allowed earlier.

It's almost inevitable for him to think that he might have finally gone good and properly mad this time. Maybe he actually lost it back on _The Valiant, _such a short time ago that feels like so very long, though he doesn't know. If he's entirely honest with himself, it's not even so much that he doesn't know as it is the staggering reality that he can't bring himself to even care. That should bother him, he knows, that he can't muster up the ability to give a shit about his own mental health, but again, he doesn't care.

For the first time he can ever remember, he actually feels envious of human beings. He wishes, desperately so, that he could make another attempt at sleep, lapse into a world of dreams that're void of the drums. The only time that the noise is gone completely - aside from when a certain human is close by - is in his dreams, and he longs for that peace.

A small sigh, barely audible, passes between his lips as he moves from one awkward position on the almost too-small bed to another. While the lights dimmed considerably earlier, when Rose and Mr. Mickey left, they didn't go completely out, and he isn't entirely sure how he feels about that. On one hand, he's glad that he can see his hand in front of his face again, but on the other he doesn't like the fact that everything is visible. He hates the vulnerability of knowing that whoever is on the other side of the CCTV can see each and every move he makes. Absently, he wonders why they think they'll accomplish with the camera. He supposes that they can makes sure that their prisoners don't go escaping, but other than that, he sees no use in it.

Without any warning, the door swings open, and for a brief second, a flash of hope (one that would never actually admit to) flares up within him as his entire body jerks toward the door. As the door opens fully and he sees that the person entering is not Rose, a rush of disappoint races through him, even stronger than the hope before it. A small, secret part of him is terrified that the presence, or lack thereof, of this simple human girl can incite such emotions within him.

The man, teenager really, dressed in grayscale camo and wearing an earpiece, carries in a tray of food in one hand and a folded table under his other arm. Setting the table up in two swift one-handed motions, he puts the tray atop it wordlessly.

"Aw.. Thank you." The Master croons, words positively dripping with sarcasm. The bringer of the food looks awkward, looking almost like he's not entirely sure whether or not he should say anything in reply or simply walk away.

"Don't thank me." He finally grunts as he nears to door to leave again. "Captain Tyler told me to bring it." The information makes The Master's eyebrows raise in slight surprise, yet he doesn't reply, doesn't dare say another word, because it seems that lately he doesn't have much control of anything, not even his own words. He's left alone in the room again, and it takes a considerable amount of time before his hunger amounts and he stands and makes his way toward the food. As he glances down at it, a small smirk plays at the corners of his lips.

Rose is smart. Either that or she's incredibly lucky. There's a considerable amount of food on the table, yet it's all incredibly low protein food. It'll keep his energy down, he knows, and he also knows that the food was chosen this way in an effort to make sure he doesn't escape. He thinks it ironic that they're doing this, keeping him locked up and having a constant video stream on him, because surely they must know that if he wanted out, he'd already have been long gone.

He eats very little, and though he's not entirely satisfied, it's enough. Considering he's not sure when (or even if) he'll be fed later, he wants to make the meal last as long as he possibly can.

Moving back to his bed, he leans against the wall, before leaping away with a yelp of pain. He slips his shirt over his head, wincing as the cotton assaults the sensitive skin, and stops in horror as he touches the flesh between his shoulder blades.

Covering almost all of his back are severe burns.

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**Thank you for reading this chapter, I love all of you, and if you love me back you'll review. Please? I can beg, I really can. But I need to ask you lovely people something. I want to change my username, something to reflect my love of Master/Rose pairing, but I can't think of anything. Any ideas?**


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